“Oh, because to die on the scaffold one must have committed some crime—stolen, or committed murder, or done something dreadful; and it is not likely I shall do that. It was a jest, was it not?”
“Oh, mon Dieu, yes,” said Cagliostro; “all I have said is but a jest.”
The countess laughed, but scarcely in a natural manner. “Come, M. de Favras,” said she, “let us order our funerals.”
“Oh, that will be needless for you, madame,” said Cagliostro.
“Why so, sir?”
“Because you will go to the scaffold in a car.”
“Oh, how horrible! This dreadful man, marshal! for heaven’s sake choose more cheerful guests next time, or I will never visit you again.”
“Excuse me, madame,” said Cagliostro, “but you, like all the rest, would have me speak.”
“At least I hope you will grant me time to choose my confessor.”
“It will be superfluous, countess.”